


Suck Me In

by the_ragnarok



Series: Allowed [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Asexuality, Established Relationship, M/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:03:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur's restless, Eames wants to help, and dream architecture is put to startling uses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suck Me In

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [night_reveals' tentacle fest](http://night-reveals.livejournal.com/17246.html) (Warning: Link NSFW). Beta'd by anatsuno and photoclerk, who are both lovely and amazing.

The city's not one Eames has ever been to. It's lovely, though, steep inclines and convoluted alleyways and a gorgeous view of the sea whenever one turns to look.

When he says so, Ariadne beams up at him brightly. "I've been working a lot on the ambient sensation." She stops walking to pluck a fruit from a tree – some kind of berry, it seems like. It stains her lips purple. "It's a fine line, though. Too little and it has no effect, too much and – am I boring you?"

Eames doesn't laugh, because the question is sincere. Ariadne's been working on that. "Not at all," he says, truthfully. Ways to make the dreamer emotionally invested in the scenario are of no small interest to him, too.

"Right. So, too much and... Oh, just look." She scrunches her nose. Eames can feel a subtle shift in the scenery around them, but it's too elusive for him to tell what it is.

Ariadne raises her hand. She's holding a cup she didn't have a moment ago. That's not what the change was, though. Eames can still feel the difference between changes in the dream and changes in the dreamer, thank you very much.

Things become slightly more clear when the branches of the tree shape themselves into a spout and red juice spurts into the cup. Ariadne lifts it to her mouth and drinks.

"Want some?" Her upper lip has a juice-mustache.

Eames declines with a shake of his head. "I see what you mean," he says thoughtfully. The branches are still spout-shaped; he touches them, and they curl around his fingers, seeking. "Interesting."

Ariadne raises an eyebrow, and suddenly they're tight around his wrist and Eames can't get away. "Getting into militarizations, are we?" Eames' voice is perhaps a little sharper than it should be. "Make it let go, please."

At Ariadne's shrug, the plant unhands – unbranches? – him, and Eames resists the urge to shake his hand in something like revulsion.

"Pleasure jaunts, actually." Ariadne's eyes are on him, steady. "I think I'm getting tired of forcing my way in."

Eames hums. "Those aren't as glamorous as some would have you believe, pet." Eames ought to know. "But you can run into some fairly interesting challenges, true enough."

There's something tickling at his palm, and when Eames looks at it, it's the goddamned tree again. It's not grabbing, though, just rubbing against him like an affectionate cat.

"It likes you," Ariadne says with a laugh.

"I'm sorry, tree, but it's just not mutual." The branch retreats with a general disappointed air. Then Eames shakes his head, and it's only a tree again.

There's a thought forming in the base of Eames' mind. He's not sure what it is yet, but he knows this kind of feeling and it rarely steers him wrong. "Ari," he says, "would you mind showing me how you did that?"

~~

Home is empty when Eames goes back. Ariadne was a welcome distraction, but she's a busy woman and can't always keep Eames company. Eames dislikes the silence, hates the bleakness of lights turned off, detests the slovenliness of lights left on for nobody’s use.

It's not that he's lonely or pining, except for how that's precisely what he is.

Arthur's on one of his cursed workaholic benders again. He invited Eames to join, and join Eames did, for the first couple of jobs. After that he wanted his rest, the comfort of his own bed to sleep in and time to do with as he pleased. Arthur just shrugged, said "Suit yourself," and went on to board a flight to Mozambique.

Bloody Mozambique. What's it got that Eames doesn't have, Eames would quite like to know.

~~

Arthur gets back in the wee hours of the morning, as he always does. Eames wakes up when he hears his key turning in the door. He stays in bed, drowsy, waiting for Arthur to come to him.

Only Arthur seems to have no such plans. The noises from the living room sound like Arthur quickly and efficiently sorting his belongings.

It sounds like Arthur's _packing_ , and Eames leaves the bed before he can even finish the thought.

Arthur's on his knees in front of an open suitcase, and he turns his face up when he hears Eames approaching.

"What the hell," Eames starts, and stops, because Arthur looks like death warmed over. He kneels down in front of him. "What the hell," Eames repeats, softer. He touches a hand to Arthur's face.

Arthur blinks rapidly. "Got another offer, on the way back from the airport. If I take it, I have to leave now."

"And why," Eames says, patience running thin, "would you take it?"

Arthur's mouth stretches into a mirthless smile. "Gotta do something."

All right, that's quite enough. Eames gets up and pulls Arthur to his feet. "Yes, and that something is _sleep_. Come to bed, darling, you can sort everything else in the morning."

Arthur frowns, but he follows Eames to bed docilely enough.

"It's a bad idea," he says, drowsy, into Eames' side once they're both in bed. "I'm still. I."

"Sleep, darling," Eames whispers in his ears, and Arthur shudders and obeys.

~~

It's a testament to Arthur's fatigue that Eames wakes up before him. In fact, Arthur only staggers out of bed in the late afternoon. Eames makes him a cup of coffee, doesn't try to engage him in conversation until he's ingested half of it.

Eames leans against the counter and crosses his arms. "So can you tell me what's so important that you'll run off in the middle of the night for it? After you've just gotten back?"

Arthur grimaces. "It was just a job. It wasn't anything." At Eames' raised eyebrow he adds, "I just. I get all caught up in working, and I have to keep going until I run out of juice or I start getting restless."

"You were out of juice," Eames says severely. "You were bloody dehydrated, by the look of you."

"Looks are deceiving." But it makes Arthur crack into a small smile, so Eames smiles back at him with some measure of satisfaction. "It's still true. I'm probably going to be an asshole today, so. Sorry in advance."

“Aren't you always?” Eames says. He ducks the throw pillow Arthur tosses at him, and everything is back as it should be.

~~

Except it turns out quite soon that Arthur's right.

That first day, Arthur's still soft with exhaustion, quiet and affectionate as he sometimes gets; Eames is hardly going to complain.

The second day, though.

"Fuck this," Arthur snarls and shuts down his laptop with such force that Eames winces.

Arthur then proceeds to stare at it until Eames says, unsure, "Darling?"

"It's no use." Arthur doesn't look at him. The slump of his shoulders is getting decidedly worrying. "I can't fucking concentrate on anything."

Eames comes to him, then, because he can't not. Rubs his shoulders and kisses the nape of his neck, just at the hairline. "Anything I can do to help?"

He straightens. Arthur lets his head droop back until Eames can see his expression, which is a small frown. "I don't know."

"Well, what do you normally do?" Eames thinks this is reasonable enough. Certainly it doesn't merit the glare Arthur gives him.

"Normally I work until it wears off," Arthur says, with as pointed a look as he can manage while effectively looking upside down at Eames. "Guess why I can't, now."

Eames knows better than to suggest Arthur take another job now. For one, he's obviously still too tired. In any case, if Arthur can't concentrate, he obviously can't work. Eames tries to think about stress relief methods. "You could go for a run," he says. Eames detests running, but Arthur likes it – definitely prefers it to weight-lifting, which is what Eames would do in his stead.

Arthur shakes his head, and Eames thinks further. Arthur has no equivalent to cooking or art, the things Eames does to wind down. Come to think of it, Eames isn't even sure Arthur enjoys the same silly Facebook games Eames does. Arthur works and he reads, and that seems to be it. "We could spar," he says.

Arthur looks skeptic, but he takes Eames up. However, a bare few minutes into the fight, it's obvious it won't work. Arthur's reactions are slowed enough that Eames' natural size advantage is enough to overwhelm him.

"Right," Eames says, and he's ready to get up when he feels Arthur getting hard against him. He puts his weight back down and grinds against Arthur, experimentally. Eames doesn't much feel like this right now, but if it helps....

Arthur arches into him a couple of times, then subsides. "Never mind," he says, turning his face away. "It'll just make things worse. I'm really sorry."

Eames leans on his elbows and takes Arthur's face in his hands until they're looking each other in the eye again. "Enough with the vagueness. If you need something, tell me."

" _Need_ , please," Arthur mutters. "I'm just being an asshole, okay? Ignore me. It'll go away on its own."

Eames snorts. "Right. Name _one_ incident where that strategy worked." Arthur tries to look away again, but Eames won't let him.

Eventually Arthur gives him a small smile and squirms in a definite way. "All right. Off."

Eames rolls away. To his surprise, Arthur doesn't stand up. Instead he comes to lie behind Eames, throwing an arm around his waist. Eames subsides and pulls Arthur closer.

"I need to be fucked," Arthur says into his ear, quiet and a little deprecating. "Not just penetrated. Held in place and driven into. I need to feel like I'm wanted."

Eames brushes a kiss over Arthur's hand. "You are."

Arthur's grip tightens. "Desired, then," he says, and all right, Eames will grant him that. It still rings false, for all the truth in it. "You know what I mean."

There's no recrimination in Arthur's voice, not even of himself. Eames would have nothing to start a fight about even if he wanted to. He only has a small quibble. "Since when do you like being forced?"

The noise Arthur makes at that causes something to clench inside Eames. He turns to face Arthur, to nuzzle at his throat and his jaw. "I don't," Arthur says into the top of his head. "It’s not like that. I – fuck it, I don't even know. It doesn't make any sense, okay?"

"People often don't," Eames says. "Libidos even less so."

Arthur smacks his shoulder. Eames huffs into his ear and licks the outer shell. They lie quietly for a little longer.

"Sometimes, fuck." Arthur's on his back now, staring at the ceiling while Eames kisses his chest. "I want to be treated like I'm made of fucking glass. Hold me, yeah, but do it too hard and I'll cut you."

Eames' laughter is muffled in Arthur's skin. "I'll take that into account."

“I don’t want to be forced,” Arthur says again, soft. “Just. I don’t want you to want to let go.”

 _I never do,_ Eames thinks. He gets up, looks at where Arthur's blinking at him. "Come on," he says, offering Arthur a hand. "I have an idea."

"That phrase is starting to scare me, just so you know." But Arthur takes his hand, and Eames draws him into a kiss and then leads him to the bedroom.

~~

Arthur eyes his surroundings, skeptic. "This didn't work the first time we tried it."

"Well, if at first..." At Arthur's glare, Eames represses the urge to go on. "Anyway, this is something quite different. Could it hurt to try?"

"I can't believe you even asked that," Arthur says, but he lies down on the raised dais Eames made for him. It's not too altar-like nor too cot-like, just a soft place for Arthur to wait while Eames makes the landscape cooperate.

He takes a moment to consider – does he want to try plants, or perhaps machines? But Eames firmly believes that when in doubt, one should go for the classics. It's a little odd, at first – the thing he's trying to conjure is neither precisely a projection nor a piece of architecture, but something in between and a little to the side.

Then they do come, and Eames allows himself a small measure of satisfaction as Arthur sits up and looks around.

"Eames," Arthur says, in a calm, measured tone, "What the _fuck_."

Eames hesitates. "Only if you want." The tentacles surrounding Arthur quiver but come no nearer, echoing Eames' uncertainty.

Arthur stays absolutely still for a minute longer, then sags back down. "Why the hell not," he says, muffled. "But if they tear me apart, I'm holding you accountable."

"Your subconscious is as much in control of them as mine is," Eames says. "Go on, try."

"This really wasn't what I was thinking," Arthur says, but he glares at the tentacles until a thin one comes closer and slips around his wrist, loose. It tightens when Arthur pulls his hand away experimentally. Arthur frowns, and the tentacle slides away, leaving his wrist wet and slightly reddened.

Eames goes to kneel beside Arthur. Kisses him, his mouth and his cheeks and his eyelids when they close. "Shall I, then?"

"Try," Arthur says into his mouth. It's difficult to let go, to stand away, but Eames needs perspective for what he's doing, if he wants to do it _right_.

The tentacles are of all sizes, some larger around than Eames' thighs, some thinner than a finger, and all through the range in between. Two of the thickest ones wrap all around Arthur’s legs and one of middling girth wraps around his waist, lifting him up.

Eames waits to see how Arthur reacts, cautiously waiting for an adverse reaction from either Arthur or the - creature, Eames thinks, for lack of a better term. Nothing happens. A moment later, Arthur frowns in concentration. Two slender tentacles come to wrap around his wrists, binding them together.

“Comfy?” Eames asks. Arthur nods, eyes wide and dark and beautiful.

The tentacles feel _odd_ , like extensions of Eames’ fingers. Like he’s surrounding Arthur, containing him in some strange way. It’s not unpleasant, though, not in the least. It takes a moment to figure out fine control, but then he has it. He uses the fine, finger-like appendages to unbutton Arthur’s shirt, to open his zipper and peel his pants away. Arthur helps, twisting with the movements. Eames finds it’s easiest if he doesn’t actively try to control them all at once, if he just lets the broad grasping ones manage themselves.

Then Arthur’s naked, and it’s as though Eames has a thousand hands to slide over him, a thousand mouths with which to kiss - the tentacles have irregularly interspersed suckers, and whenever one bumps Arthur’s skin Eames can feel it in his lips, on his tongue.

It’s bloody amazing, is what it is. Eames has no idea how he’ll even handle it when they go further. But he has no way of knowing until he tries, does he?

The first tentacle that slides into Arthur is a little more than a finger’s width, nimble and agile, easy for Eames to manipulate. The sensory clarity is unbelievable, more vibrant than anything Eames has ever felt in real life. For a moment Eames wonders about it, where his brain is even pulling these ideas from, but he lets that question go.

Arthur. He has Arthur in his hands, in his mouth, completely. He can feel everything, all at once, and he doesn’t have to let go at all, doesn’t have to manage around his own discomforts and physical limits. Just take. Just have.

Arthur twists in his grasp, a beautiful live thing, and Eames cradles him and pushes into him until he gasps and throws his head back.

“Harder?” Eames says. When Arthur moans, “Yes,” Eames can hear it as though Arthur spoke right into his ear.

It’s not difficult at all to move like that, to fuck Arthur with exactly the force and speed he wants, and length and girth as well. To place suckers over Arthur’s nipples and move them like a kiss, to touch him all over, inside and out.

With a twist of thought, Eames conjures another tentacle, a different one, one that can take in as well as put out. It sucks Arthur’s cock and Eames can feel it in his hand, taste it, sense it rubbing against his skin everywhere until he’s overwhelmed with soft skin, fever-hot.

It doesn’t take long to make Arthur come, or perhaps that’s just Eames’ perception, skewed. But he can’t bear to let go, can’t bear to stop touching Arthur _anywhere_. He takes a breath, about to force himself to let Arthur go when he sees Arthur shake his head.

A couple of tentacles have found their way into Arthur’s mouth, and he suckles on them with a dreamy expression. Those, Eames can’t quite feel - they’re muffled, distant. Perhaps Arthur’s controlling them himself. They slip away, and Arthur says, “Don’t stop.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Eames says. That he even has to utter the words is completely ridiculous.

“You’re not.” Arthur’s voice is soft but not broken, raw. Eames comes to him, compelled.

He takes Arthur in his arms - his actual arms; so strange, all of a sudden, to think of them apart from all the things he’s got wrapped around Arthur. It feels different, the sensation of skin less clear, but perhaps even more powerful for that. It’s all of a piece, and it’s all beautiful.

Eames kisses Arthur, heedless of the small tentacles slipping back into his mouth, heedless of everything but the sweetness of skin on skin, the taste of Arthur, sweaty and human and so very real.

~~

When they come out Eames doesn’t let Arthur move away, only disconnects him from the PASIV and gathers him up, already mourning the loss of contact. He pushes his face into Arthur’s neck and breathes him in, unwilling to let that sweet connection go.

He must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing he knows is the languid warmth of afternoon and a sadly empty bed. Eames gets up. Something smells suspiciously good.

Arthur’s in the kitchen. Eames elbows him away, just in time to save the poor pancakes from a fate worse than infamy.

When the food is ready, Eames can stand and take Arthur in, the relaxed set of his shoulder, the way he’s finally breathing deep and even, as he should, as is right.

He pins Arthur to a wall. “Just for a minute,” he says into Arthur’s hair, eyes closed.

Arthur’s hand closes on the back of his neck. “As many as you want.”

It’s possible they stay there until the pancakes get cold; but if so, nobody asks and Eames isn’t telling.


End file.
